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-COMPILED BY 



Mrs. OLIVET E. BRO^VEK. 



PRTC?: 3(> OK^STS. 



PLAINVir.LE, CONN. 

II. B. browp:k, publisher. 

1885. 



70.3 r^^ 







COPYRIGHT. 

OLivpyr E. browp:r 

1885. 



7- 



PREFACE. 



J. 

Mills little book claims nothing original. 1 have 

^given the names of the Authors, as far as I have 
been able to learn them, and in some cases the 
names of the papers or magazines from which they 
wera taken; but some of them, (Annie's and Wil- 
lie's Prayer, for instance,) have been printed so 
many times that it is quite difficult to give credit 
just where it belongs. 

I have saved '-Cuttings" for twenty years or 
more, and to add to my variety,! have chosen some 
from the collecrions of others. 

My sincere wish is that my friends may find as 
muL-h pleasure in reading the book as I hive taken 
in preparing it; it has been a delightful task. 



COISTTEISTTS. 



Mother's Way 
Nothing to Do 



46 
38 



Annie's and Willie's Prayer, . . 5 

Aunt Betsey's Prayer Meeting, Loadou S. 8. Times, 78 
Baby's Reply, . . . .100 

^'Binley and '46" ... GO 

Driving Home the Cows, . utica Observer. 30 

Go Feel What 1 Have Felt, 
Her Little Sister, . . . ^ 

How Mamma Plays, ... 54 

How the Baby Came, . . .15 

"l Must Grow Fast's I Can," Baldwu^. Mont/di/. 40 
"If My Heart Werna Light," . .22 

Life a Stocl^ing, . . ^ 4^ 

Luhi's Complaint, . . . .18 

Mary Dow, . . p>om Memory, 49 

My Work, . . Mrs. Il.-nck J^.Ioi.on, U 

My Mother's Hands, . . .28 

102 
96 



Not Fit to be Kissed, . 


48 


No Time to Pray, 


91 


Only a Baby .... 


100 


Pass Under the Rod, 


71 


Perplexed Housekeeper, 


57 


Pitty Pat's Prayer, 


95 


Rules for Daily Life, 


75 


Six O'clock P. M. Syra<:a><e Daily Standard, 


32 


That Dreadful Boy, 


36 


The Blacksmith Man, . , 


34 


The Pride of Battery B, . 


24 


There is no E in This, 


23 


The Deacon's Prayer, Ghn's Fid's MtHnengtr, 


19 


The Dead Doll, . . St. Nicholas, 


88 


The Drill, Army and 2\aTy Journal, 


86 


The Baby, . . . 


74 


The Unwritten Leader, 


66 


U'he Laborer's Song, 


56 


The Model Church, B. F. Taylor. 


52 


The Watered Lillies, 


41 


Thoughts are Heard in Heaven, 


76 


Tried Gold, .... 


84 


"Two Cents a Week," Heathen Woman Friend. 


98 


We Could not Pay, 


92 


Woman's Rights, 


82 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



BY .MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW 



nnW'AS the eve iH'fore Cliristinas ; ''(lood night" 
1\ li;i(l })eeii said. 

And Annie and Willie had crej)! into l)ed : 
riicic were tears on there ])illows. and tears in 

their eyes. 
And each little l)osom was heaving- with sighs. 
Kor to-night their stern father's command had 

been given 
That they should retire precisely at seven 
Instead of at eight; for they troubled him more 
\N ilh (juestions uaheard of than ever before: 
lie had told them he thought this delusion a sin. 
No -nch l)eingas ''Santa Claus" ev^er had been. 
And hi' hoped, after this, he should neverinore hear 
ITow he scrambled down chimneys with })i'esents 

each year. 
And this was the reason that two little heads 
So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 



(') 
Eight, nine, and tlie eloclv on tlie steeple tolled ten : 
Not a word had been spoken by either till tiien. 
When Willie's sad face from the l)lanket did pee}). 
And whispered, ''Dear Annie, is 'ou fast aseep?" 
'•Why no. Brother AVillie," a sweet voiee replies, 
'•I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut ray eyes. 
For soraehow it makes me so sorry because 
Dear papa has said there is no "Santa C'laus.' 
Now we know there is, and it can't he denied. 
For he came every year before mamma died: 
But then, I've been thinking that she used to pray. 
And God would hear every thing mamma wouhl say 
And maybe she asked Him to send Santa C lause 

here 
With the sack full of presents He brought 

every year. 
''Well why tan't we pay dest as mamma did deu. 
And ask Dod to send Him with i)esents aden?" 
"I've been thinking so too." and without a 

word more 
Four little bare feet l)Ounded out on the floor. 
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed. 
And two tiny hands were clasped close to eacli 

breast. 

Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe 
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive : 
You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen'. 



' 7 
And b}" that you will know that your turn has 
come then." 

••Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, 
And grant us the favor we are asking of Thee. 
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set, and ring 
And an ebony work-])Ox that shuts with a spring. 
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 
That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he ; 
Don't let him get fretful and angry again 
At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen. 

"Please, Desus, et Santa Taus tum down to-night 
And bing us some pesents before it is ight ; 
I want He should div' me a nice ittle sed. 
With bright shinin unners, and all painted red ; 
A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy, 
Amen, and then, Desus. I'll he a dood boy." 

Their prayers being ended, they raised up 

their heads. 
And, with hearts light and cheerful, again sought 

their beds. 
They were soon lost in slumber, both peaceful 

and deep. 
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had 
struck ten, 



8 
Ere the father had thought of his children again ; 
He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs, 
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. 
'' I was harsh with my darlings." he mentally said, 
"And should not have sent them so early to bed ; 
But then I was troubled ; my feelings found vent. 
For bank stock to-day has gone down ten i)er cent. 
But of course they've forgotten their troul)les 

ere this. 
And that I denied them the thiice-asked-for kiss ; 
But, just to make sure, I'll steal up to their door. 
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." 
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. 
And arrived at the door to hear both of their 

prayers. 
His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears. 
And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears: 
"Strange — strange — I'd forgotten." said he with 

a sigh, 
"How I longed when a child to have Christmas 

draw nigh". 
"I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said. 
"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." 
Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down. 
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown. 
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in 

the street — 
A millionaire, facing the cold driving sleet, 



Nor stopped lie until he had l)ought every thing, 
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring ; 
Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store 
That the various presents outnumbered a score. 
Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load 
With Aunt Mary's help in the nursery was stowed. 
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine-tree 
By the side of a table spread out for her tea ; 
A work-l)ox well filled in the center was laid. 
And on it the ring for which Annie had ])rayed ; 
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled. 
'AVith bi'ight shining runners and all i)ainted red" 
There were balls, dogs and horses, books 

pleasing to see, 
.And l)irds of all colors were ])erclied in the tree : 
While Santa Clans, laughing, stood \l]^ in the toj). 
As if getting ready more presents to drop. 
And as the fond father the picture surveyed, 
lie thought for his trouble he had amply l)een paid. 
And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, 
'T'm hai)pier to-night than I've been for a year. 
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before. 
What care I if l)an!v stock falls ten per cent more ! 
Hereafter I'll make it a rule. I believe, 
To have Santa Clans visit ua each Christmas Eve." 
So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. 
And, trii)ping down stairs, retired for the night. 
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun 



10 
Put tlie darkness to flight, and the stars one In' one 
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, 
And at the same moment the presents espied. 
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, 
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them 
found. 

They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, 
And shouted for papa to come quick and see 
AVhat presents Old Santa Claus brought in the night, 
(Just the things that they wanted.) and left 

before light ; 
"And now added Annie, in voice soft and low. 
"You'll believe there's a 'Santa Claus,' papa, I 

know;" 
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, 
Determined no secret between them should be. 
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said 
That their dear, blessed mamma, so long ago dead, 
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her 

chair. 
And that God up in heaven had answered her 

prayer. 
"Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould, 
And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't he 

dood ?' 

"I should say that he was if he sent yon all these, 



And knew jnst what ])re.sents my children wonhl 

please." 
(Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf. 
'Twonld l)e cruel to tell him I did it myself.) 

Blind Father I who caused your stern heart to relent 
And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent? 
'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs. 
And made you his aoent to answer their prayers. 



MY WORK. 

B 

WAS sitting alone in the twilight. 

With spirit trouliled and vexed, 

"■^ With thoughts that were morbid and gloomy 

And faith that was sadly perplexed. 

Some homely work I was doing 
For the child of my love and care ; 

Some stitches wearily setting 
In the endless need of repair. 



12 

But my thoughts were about the "Iniihling;' 

The work one day to be tried. 
When only the gold and silver 

And the precious stones shall abide. 

And remembering my own poor efforts. 

The wretched work I had done, 
And even when trying most truly. 

The meager success I had won, 

'It is nought but wood, hay and stubble," 
I said "it will all be burned, — 

This useless fruit of the talents. 
One day to l)e returned. 

Yet I have so longed to serve Him, 
And sometime I know I have tried. 

But I am sure when He sees such Iniilding 
He will never let it abide. 

Just then, as I turned the garment. 
That no rent should be left behind, 

I spied an odd little bungle 

Of mending and patchwork combined. 

My heart grew suddenly tender. 
And something blinded my eyes, 

With one of those sweet intuitions, 
That sometimes make us so wise. 



18 

Dear child ! she wanted to help me ; 

I know 'twas the best she could do, 
But oh, what a botch she had made it 

The grey mismatching the blue. 

And yet — can you understand it? — 
With a tender smile and a tear 

And a half compassionate yearning. 
1 felt her grow more dear. 

Then a sweet voice In'oke the silence 

And the dear Lord said to me ; 
'Art thou tenderer for the little child. 
Than I am tender for thee?" 

And straightway I knew his meaning 
80 full of compassion and love, 

And m}^ faith came back to it's refuge. 
Like the glad returning dove. 

So I thought when the Master Builder 

Comes down his temple to view ; 
/Lo see what rents must be mended 
And what must be made anew. 

Perhaps tis He looks o'er the Iniilding 
He will bring my work to light. 

And seeing the marring and bungling 
And how far it is all from right : 



14 

He will feel as I felt for my darling, 
And will say as I said for her. 

Dear child, she wanted to help me 
And love for me was the spur. 

"And for the real love that is in it, 
The work shall seem perfect as mine, 

And because it was willing service 
I will crown it with plaudit divine." 

And there in the deepening twilight 
I seemed to be clasping a hand. 

And to feel a great love constraining me 
Stronger than any command. 

And I knew by the thrill of sweetness 
'Twas the hand of the Blessed One, 

Which would tenderly guide and hold me 
Till all the labor is done. 

So my thoughts are never more gloomy, 

My faith no longer is dim 
But my heart is strong and restful, 

And mine eyes are unto Him. 



u 



HOW THE BABY CAME. 



Fj|llIE Lady-moon came down last night- 
M, She did, you mus'n't doubt it — 
"-m A lovely lady dressed in white, 
I'll tell you all about it. 
They hurried Len and I to bed, 
And Aunty said, now may be 
That pretty moon up over head. 
Will bring us down a })aby. 

You lie as quiet as can be ; 

Perhaps you'll catch her peeping, 
Between the window-panes to see 

If all the folks are sleeping, 
And then if both of you keep still, 

And all the room is shad}^, 
She'll float across the window-sill, 

A happy, white — moon-lady. 

Across the sill, along the floor, 
You'll see her shining brightly, 

Until she comes to mother's door. 
And then she'll vanish lightly; 

But in the morning you will find. 
If nothing happens, may be 



1(> 

She's left us soinetliiug nice Ijehind — 
A beautiful star — l)aby. 

We didn't just believe her then, 

For Aunty's always chatling — 
The tales she tells to me and Len, 

Would make you die a lauo-hinir ; 
And, wlien she went out pretty soon. 

Len said — "That's Aunty's huinmini 
There aint a bit of Lady-moon. 

Nor any l)aby eominti-," 

I thought myself it was a lib. 

And yet 1 wasn't certain ; 
So I kept (piiet in my cril). 

And peeped behind the ciii-taiii : 
I didn't mean to slee}) a wink 

But ail without a warning-. 
I dropped right off— and just yon think 

I never waked till morning. 

Then there was Aunty by m\- l)ed. 

And when I climbed and kissed her, 
She laughed and said : you sleepy-head. 

You've got a little sister. 
What made you shut your eyes so soon, 

I've half a miud to scold you ; 
For down she came, that Lady-moon, 



17 
Kxactly as I told you. 

And truly, it was not a joke. 

In spite of Len's denying, 
For at the very time she spoke. 

We heard the baby crying. 
The way we jumped and made a rusli. 

For mother's room that minute: 
But Aunty stopped us crying "hush! 

Or else you sha'n't go in it." 

And so we had to tiptoe in. 

And keep as very quiet : 
As if it was an awful sin 

To make a bit of riot : 
But there was baby anyhow — 

The funniest little midget ; 
I just wis-h you could peep in now 

And see her squirm and fidget. 

Len says he don't l)elieve its true. 

( He isn't such a gal)y ! ) 
The moon had anything to do 

With bringing us that baby. 
But seems to me, tis very clear : 

As clear as running water — 
Last night there was no bal)y here. 

So somethino- must have brouo-]it her 



18 



LULU'S COMPLAINT. 

BY HESTER A. BENEDICT. 

04.0 

'S a poor 'ittle sorrowful baby, 
For B'idget is 'way down stairs ; 

My titten has tatcherl my finder, 
And Dolly won't say her p'ayers. 

I hain't seen my bootiful mama 

Since ever so Ion' ado ; 
An' I aint her tunnin'est baby 

No londer, for B'idget said so. 

My ma's dot anoder new bal\y : 

Dod dived it — He did — yes'erday 

An' it kies, it kies, so defful ! 
I wis' He would tate it away. 

I don't want no "sweet 'ittle sister!" 
I want my dood mama, I do ; 

I want her to tiss me, an' tiss me, 
An' tall me her p'ecious Lulu ! 



19 

I dess my bid papa will b'in' me 
A ittle dood titten some day ; 

Here's nurse wid my mama's new baby 
I wis s'e would tate it away. 

Oh. oh, what tunnin' yed finders ! 

It sees me yite out o' its eyes ! 
I dess we will teep it, and dive it 

Some tanny whenever it kies. 

1 dess I will dive it my Dolly 
To play wid mos' every day ; 

And I dess, I dess — say, B'idget, 
As' Dod not to tate it away. 



THE DEACON'S PRAYER. 



In the regular evening meeting 
f Which the church holds, every week. 
One night a listening angel sat 
To hear them pray and speak. 



2(1 

It puzzled the soul of the angel 

Why some to that gathering came, 
But sick and sinful hearts he saw. 

With guilt and grief atiame. 

They were silent, but said to the angel, 

"Our lives have need of Him!" 
AYhilc doubt, with dull, vague, throbl>ing pnin 

Stirred through their spirits dim. 

You could see 'twas the regular meeting. 

And the regular seats were filled. 
And all knew who would }n"ay and talk. 

Though any might that willed. 

From his place in front, near the i)id[)it. 

In his long accustomed way, 
When the Book was read, and tiie hymn was sung, 

The deacon arose to pray. 

First came the long preamble — 

If Peter had opened so. 
He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had lieard. 

Full fifty fathoms below. 

Then a volume of information 

Poured forth, as if to the Lord. 
Concerning His ways and attril)utes. 

And the tilings by Him abhorred ; 



•2i 

lUit not in the list of the latter 

Was mentioned the nioekino; lireath. 

Of the hy[)Ocritie i)rayer that is not prayer. 
And tlie make believe life in death. 

Then he prayed for the church ; and the pastor ; 

And that ''sonls might be his hire," 
Whatever his stipend otherwise — 

vVnd the Sunday school ; and the choir ; 

And the swarming hordes of India ; 

And the perishing, vile Chinese, 
And the millions who bow to the pope of Rome ; 

And tlie ]iagan churches of Greece ; 

And the outcast remnants of Judah, 
Of whose guilt he had much to tell — 

Tie prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed. 
For everything (Mit of hell. 

Now. if all of that burden had really 

Been weighing upon his soul, 
'Twould have sunk him through to the China side. 

And raised a little hill over the hole. 

****** 

'Twas the regular evening meeting. 
And the regular prayers were made. 

l>ut the listening angel told tlu' Lord 
That only the silent |>rayed. 



22 

"IF MY HEART WERNA LIGHT. 



BY LILLIE E. BARR. 



f F my heart werna light I think I wouhl dee ; 
g But it's just like a bird in a sunshiny tree, 
"^" And aye in my breast it is singing to me.— 
"If the day's dreary. 
Try to be cheery, 
Dear lassie be patient, and dinna get weary." 

Then while I say sadly, ''Good Heart as you know 
For a' my endeavors my work is sae slow." 
And my Heart answers back— ''drive the 
nail that will go. 

Never go borrow 
Somebody's sorrow, 
P'or what's missed to-day may come better 
to-morrow." 

When I'm fair at a loss then this is its word, 
"No need despairing, for often I've heard, 
God builds the nest of the little blind l)ird'. 
Sowing and reaping. 
Trust to His keeping. 
He blesses His weary ones while they are 
sleeping." 



L>3 

If my heart weriia light I think 1 wouhl dee, 
But morning and night it keeps singing to me, 
''Your Helpers are mair than you ken or you see. 

Doubting is sinning. 

Working is winning ; 
If God bids you spin. He'll find flax for the 

spinning." 

THERE IS NO E IN THIS. 

i' °^° 

5(0HN Knox was a wight of wondrous might, 
M And his words rang high and shi'ill ; 
^" For bold and stout was his spirit bright. 

Strong was his stalwart will. 
Kings sought in vain his mind to chain. 

And that giant brain to control, 
But naught on plain or stormy main 

Could daunt that mighty soul. 
John would sit and sigh till morning cohl 

Its shining lamps put out, 
For thoughts untold on his mind laid hohl. 

And brought but pain and doubt. 
But light at last on his soul was cast. 

Away sank pain and sorrow ; 
His soul is gay in a fair to-day, 

And looks for a liright to-morrow. 



■2i 



THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 

Mouth mountain towered upon our rialit 
m Far off the river lay, 
^And over on the wooded lieio-ht 
AVe hold their lines atjuiy. 

At last the muttering guns were still. 
The da}' died slowly and wan ; 

At last the gunners, pipes did till. . 
The sergeant's yarns began. 

Wiien, as the wind a moment lAvw 

Aside the fragrant flood. 
Our brierwoods raised, within our view 

A little maiden stood. 

A tiny tot of six or seven. 

From fireside fresh she seemed 
(Of sueh a little one in heaven 

One soldier often dreame 1). 



25 
And, as we stared, her little hand 

Went to her curly head 
In grave salute. '*And who are you?" 

At length the sergeant said. 

''And Where's your home?" he growled again, 

She lisped out: ''Who is me? 
Why don't you know? I'm little Jane. 

The i)ride of Battery B. 

•My home?' Why. that was burned away. 

And pa and ma are dead. 
And so I ride the guns all day 

Along with Sergeant Ned. 

"And I've a gun that's not a toy. 

A cap with feathers, too. 
Aud march beside the drummer boy 

()u Sundays at review : 

••Bui now our 'bacco's all give out. 

The men can't have their smoke. 
And so they're cross — why. even Ned 

Won't play with me and joke. 

"And the big colonel said, to-day — 

I hate to hear him swear- 
He' d give a leg for a good pipe 

Like the Yank had over there. 



•if) 

"And so I thought when beat the drum, 
And the big guns were still, 

I'd creep beneath the tent and come 
Out here across the hill, 

"And beg, good Mister Yankee men, 
You give me some Lone Jack, 

Please do — when we get some again 
I'll surely bring it back. 

"Indeed I will, for Ned — says he — 

If I do what I say, 
I'll be a general yet, maybe. 

And ride a prancing ba}^," 

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er 
You should have heard her laugh 

As each man from his scanty store 
Shook out a generous half. 

To kiss the little mouth stooped down 

A score of grimy men, 
Until the sergeant's husky voice 

Said "'Tention, squad!" — and then 

We gave her escort, till good-night 

The pretty waif we bid. 
And watched her toddle out of sight — 

Or else 'twas tears that hid 



27 
Her tiny form — nor turned about 

A man, nor spoke a word 
Till after a while a far, hoarse shout 

Upon the wind we heard ! 

We sent it back, then cast sad eyes 

Upon the scene around :' 
A baby's hand had touched the ties 

That brothers once had bound. 

That's all — save when the dawn awoke 

Again the work of hell. 
And through the sullen clouds of smoke 

The screaming missiles fell. 

Our general often rubbed his glass, 

And marveled much to see 
Not a single shell, that whole day fell, 

In the camp of Battery B, 



Now which will you choose? to be thrifty and snug, 
And be right side up with your dish ; 

Or to go with your eyes like the eyes of a bug. 
And your shoes like the mouth of a fish. 



28 

MY MOTHER'S HANDS. 

MRS. ELLEN U. GATES. 

ftuCH beautiful,, beautiful hands! 
m They're neither white nor small. 
^ And you, I know, would scarcely think 
That they were fair at all. 
I've looked on hands in form and liuc 

A sculptor's dream might l)e 
Yet are these aged, wrinkled hands 
More beautiful to me. 

Such beautiful, beautiful hands I 

Tho' heart were weary and sad. 
These patient hands kept toiling on 

That the children might be glad. 
I often weep, as looking back 

To childhood's distant day. 
I think how these hands rested not 

While mine were at their play. 

Such beautiful. I)eautiful hands 1 
They're cold and lifeless now. 

And time and toil have left their mark 
On hand and heart and brow. 



29 
Alas I alas I the parting time 

That comes this day to me. 
When 'neath the snow so cold and white. 

These hands must folded he, 

Bnt oh I beyond those shadowy lands. 

Where all is bright and fair, 
I know full well these dear old hands 

Will palms of victory liear. 
Where crystal streams thro' endless year 

F'low over golden sands. 
And where the old grow young again. 

I'll clasp my mother's hands. 



3>o<:^j^>o=^c 



-jFj must not ho])e to be mowers 

And to gather the ripe, golden ears 
Until we have tirst been sowers, 

And watered the furrows with tear? 

It is not just as we take it — 
This mystical world of ours ; 

Life's field will yit'lcl as we make it- 
A liarA'est of thorns or flowers. 



30 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

KATE P. OSGOOD. 

j^UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 
He turned them into the river-lane ; 

One after another he let them pass, 
And fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never would let his youngest go ; 

Two already were lying dead. 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 



31 
Across the clover and through the wheat, 

With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
Though cold was the dew on the hurrying feet, 

And the blind bats flitting, startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lane been white. 
And the orchard sweet with apple bloom ; 

And now when the cows come back at night, 
The feeble father drives them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm. 

That three were lying where two had lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cold and late. 

He went for the cows when the work was done 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate. 
He saw them coming one by one. 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass- 
But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair. 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 



32 
For southern prisons will sometimes yawn. 

And yield their dead unto life again ; 
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 

In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together tliey followed the cattle home. 



'>«-;3*NxK' 



SIX CLOOK P. M 



Tt^HE worksliops open wide their tloors 
A At (> o'clock P. M. 

And workmen issu^ forth by scores 

At ('. o'clock P. M. 
Of all the minutes in array. 
Or hours that go to make the day : 
There's none so welcome, so they say 
As n o'clock P. M. 



33 

How maii}^ children show delight 

At 6 o'clock P. M. ! 
How many homes are rendered bright 

At G o'clock P. M. ! 
How many little happy feet 
Go out into the busy street, 
With jo^^ous bounds papa to meet, 

At 6 o'clock P. M. ! 

Thousands of tables draped in white 

At 6 o'clock P. M. 
The gathered families invite 

At 6 o'clock P. M. ; 
And as they eat the frugal fare, 
The}'^ quite forget their toil and care, 
And drop their heavy burdens there, 

At 6 o'clock P, M. 

Then blow, ye shrieking whistle, blow ! 

At 6 o'clock P. M., 
And let the weary toilers go 
At () o'clock P. M. 
King out, releasing bells, ring out! 
And bid the welkin take the shout. 
And echo it all round about, 

•"Tis G o'clock P. M. !" 



34 



JM BLACKSMITH MAN. 



I y mother puts an apron on to keep my coaties clean. 
A And wiibbers on my little boots, and then I go 
^ and lean 

Against the blacksmith's doorway, to watch the 

• coal-fire shine, 
The bellows heave, the hammers swing — I wish 

they all were mine! 
The horses bend their legs and stand ; I don't 

see how they can ; 
But I would love to shoe their feet just like the 
, blacksmith man. 

When I grow up an old big man, with whiskers 

on my chin, 
I will not have a grocery store, or dry goods 

store, or tin ; 
I will not be a farmer, or lawyer, not a bit ; 
Or president — all the other boys are meaning 

to be it — 
Or a banker, with the money })ills piled high 

upon the stan'— 
I'd rather hold the red-hot iron and be a 

blacksmith man. 



35 

The blacksmith man has got such arms ; his shop 
is such a place : 

He gets as dirty as he likes, and no one cleans 
his face ! 

And when the lightning's in the sky he makes 
his bellows blow, 

And all his fires flare quickly up like the light- 
ning down below. 

Oh, he must have the nicest time that any person 
can ; 

I wish I could grow up to-day, and be a black- 
smith man? 

I mean to have a little house with vines and 

porches to't. 
And fixed up nice and clean for me when I get 

tired of soot. 
I'd marry little Susie and have her for my wife, 
'We've been so well acquainted with each other 

all our life! 
Oh, I mean to be as hearty and as happy as Tcan, 
And an honest, good, hard-working jolly, rosy 

blacksmith man ! 



:« 



THAT DREADFUL BOY, 



:'M looking lor u dreadful l)(>y. 
|l)oes anybody know 'im? 
Who's leading all tiie other hoys 
The way they shouldn't go in. 
I think, if I could find that hoy. 
I'd stop what he is doin', — 
A-bringing all the other boys 
To certain moral ruin. 

There's Tommy Green, a growing lad 
His mother has informed me. 
'The way that he is getting bad 
Would certainly alarm me. 
She feels the blame should rest upon 
John Brown — a recent comer— 
For Tommy was a lovely child 
A year ago this summer. 



37 
But when I spoke to Mrs. Brown 
Her inmost soul was shaken. 
To think that Mrs. Green could be 
So ver}^ much mistaken ; 
She did assure me Johnny was 
As good a child as any. 
Except for learning naughty things 
From Mrs. Whitings Benny. 

And Mrs. Whiting frets because 

Of Mrs. Blackham's Freddy;- 

Slie fears he's taught young Benjamin, 

Some wicked tricks alread}^ 

Yet Fred is such an innocent 

( I have it from his mother, ) — 

He wouldn't think of doing wrong. 

Untempted by another. 

(), when I think I've found the boy 

Whose ways are so disgracin'. 

I always learn he's some one else. 

And lives some other place in. 

And if we cannot search him out. 

He will ( most dreadful pity! ) 

Spoil all the other boys, who oth.u-wisii 

Woidd ornament our city. 



38 

HER LITTLE SISTER. 



(Y sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're 

Jl to wait, if you please, 

'And said I might stay till she came, if I'd 

promise her never to tease. 
Nor speak till you speak to me first. But that's 

all nonsense, for how would you know 
What she told me to say, if I didn't? Don't you 
really and truly think so? 

And then you'd feel strange here alone, and 

you wouldn't know just where to sit; 
For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we 

never use it a bit. 
We keep it to match with the sofa ; but Jack says 

it would be like you 
To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock 

out the very last screw. 

Suppose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to ! 

Oh ! you're afraid they'd think it was mean. 
Well, then, there's the album ; that's prett}^, if 

you're sure that your fingers are clean. 
For sister says sometimes 1 daub it; but she onI>' 

says that vvhen shes cross. 
There's her picture. You know it! It's like her: 

but she ain't as good looking, of course. 



39 

This is me. It's the best of 'em all. Now tell 
me you'd never have thought 

That once I was little as that? It's the only one 
that could be bought — 

For that was the message to pa from the photo- 
graph man where I sat — 

That he wouldn't print off any more till he first 
got his money for that. 

What? Maybe your tired of waiting. Why, often 

she's longer than this, 
There's all of her back hair to do up, and all of 

the front curls to frizz. ; 

But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown 

people, just you and me, 
Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do? 

But don't come like Tom Lee. 

Tom Lee? her last beau. Why, my goodn'ess ! 

He used to be here day and night. 
Till the folks thought he'd be her husband, and 

Jack says that gave him a fright. 
You won't run away, then, as he did? For you're 

not a rich man, they say. 
Pa says you're poor as a church mouse. Now, 

are you ! And how poor are they? 

Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I^m ; 
for I know now your hair isn't red. 



40 
But what there is left of it is mousy, aud not 

what that naughty Jack said ; 
But there! I must go. Sister's coming: but I 

wish I could wait, just to see 
If she ran up to you and kissed you in the way 

she used to kiss Lee. 

"I MUST QROW FAST'S I CAN." 

^. . 

MRS. M. F. BUTTS. 

»o, 

^■■. 

^'^mHY can't little things keep little, 
ft? 'Stead o' hurrying to get grown? 
• Pretty soon these cunning chickens 

Will be just all leg and bone. 
Growing s])oils things — ^ don't it, mamma? 

Lambs must go and turn to sheep. 
How I wish these downy darlings 
Would stay small for me to keep." 

Thus my boy, in frock and apron, 

AVith his long curls flying free. 
Then said I: • 'you'll stay a baby, 

Always sweet and small for me : 
You won't grow, if growing spoils things." 

'T must grow as fast's I can," 
Straight he said, his blue e^^es flashing, 

'•Else I 11 never be a man.'*' 



41 



THE WATERED LILIES. 



1 ^ . 

i 



HE Master stood in his garden, 
■^;^ Among the lilies fair, 



Which his OAvn right hand had planted, 
And trained with the tenderest care. 

He looked at their snowy blossoms, 
And marked with observant eye, 

That his flowers were sadly drooping, 
For their leaves were parched and dry. 

"My lilies need to be watered," 

The Heavenly Master said, 
"Wherein shall I drav/ it up for them, 

And raise each drooping head." 

Close to his feet, on tiie pathway, 

PZmpty and frail and small. 
An earthen vessel was lying, 

Which seemed of no use at all. 



42 
But the Master saAv and raised it, 

From the dust wherein it lay, 
And smiled as He gently whispered, 

This shall do my work to-day. 

It is but an earthen vessel — 

But it lay so close to me, 
It is small, but it is empty. 

That is ail it needs to be. 

So to the fountain He took it. 
And filled it full to the brim. 

How glad was the earthen vessel. 
To be of some use to Him. 

He poured forth the living waters, 

Over his lilies fair ; 
Until the vessel was empty. 

And again He filled it there. 

He watered the drooping lilies. 

Until they revived again, 
And the Master saw with pleasure 

That it had not been in vain. 

His hand had drawn the water, 

Which refreshed the thirsting flower> 

But He used the earthen vessel. 
To convey the living showers. 



43 
And to itself it whispered, 

As He laid it aside once more ; 
"Still will I lie in his pathway, 

Just where I did before. 

"Close would I keep to the Master, 

Empty would I remain. 
And perhaps some day He may use me. 

To water his flowers again." 



,54.;, oo<=o-<^-^oOo 



LIFE A STOCKING. 



IJFhe supper is over, the hearth is swept, 
^ And in the wood-fire's glow 
•^The children cluster to hear a tale 
Of that time, so long ago, 

When grandmamma's hair was golden-brown, 
And the warm blood came and went 

O'er the face that was scarcely sweeter then 
Than now in its rich content. 



44 
The face is wrinkled and careworn now, 

And the golden hair is gray ; 
But the light that shone in the 3'oung girl's eyes 

Has never gone away. 

And the needles catch the tire's bright light 

As in and out they go, 
With the clickiuii; noise that orandma loves — 

Shaping the stocking toe. 

And the waiting children love it too ; 

For the}^ know the stocking's song 
Brings many a tale to grandma's mind, 

Which they shall hear ere long. 

But it brings no stories of olden times 

To grandma's heart to-night ; 
Only a sermon, quaint and short. 

Is sung b}^ the needles bright. 

"Life is a stocking," grandma says, 

"And yours is just begun ; 
But I am knitting the toe of mine, 

And my work is almost done. 

"With merry hearts we begin to knit. 

And the ribbing is almost play. 
Some are gay-colored, and some are white, 

And some are ashen gray. 



45 
"'But more are made of many a hue, 

With many a stitch set wrong, 
And man}^ a row to be sadl}^ ripped, 

Ere the whole is fair and strong. 

'•There are long plain spaces without a break 

That in youth are hard to bear ; 
And many a weary tear is dropped 

As we fasten the heel with care. 

"But the saddest, happiest time is that 
Which we court and _yet would shun, 

When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread 
And says the work is done." 

The children come to say good-night, 
With tears in their bright, young eyes; 

While in grandma's lap, with a broken thread, 
The fliiished stocking lies. 



There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky 
There's a mother's deep prayer, and a baby's 

low cry ; 
And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing 
And the manaer of Bethlehem cradles a king. 



46 



GO FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT. 

(By a yomii; ludy wlio was told that she was a nionoiuaiiiao 
in licr hatred of alcoholic liquor.) 



O, feel what I have felt, 

Go, bear what I have borne ; 
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, 
And the cold, proud world's scorn. 
Thus struggle on from year to year, 
Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 

Go, kneel as I have knelt ; 

Implore, beseech and pray. 
Strive the besotted heart to melt. 
The downward course to sta}' ; 
Be cast with bitter curse aside — 
Thy prayers burlesqued, th}^ tears defied. 

Go, stand where I have stood, 

And see the strong man bow ; 
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, 
And cold and livid brow ; 
Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
There mirrored, his soul's miser}^ 



47 
Go to my mothers' s side 

And her crushed spirit cheer; 
Thine own deep anguish hide, 

Wipe from her brow the tear ; 
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
The gray that streaks her dark hair now, 
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
And trace the ruin back to him 
Whose plighted faith in early youth, 
Promised eternal love and truth 
But who, foresworn, hath yielded up 
This promise to the deadly cup. 
And led her down from love and light 
And all that made her pathway bright 
And chained her there, 'mid want and strife, 
That lowly thing — a drunkard's wife! 
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild, 
That withering blight — a drunkard's child! 

Tell me 1 hate the bowl — 

Hate is a feeble word ; 
I loathe, abhor, my very soul 
By strong disgust is stirred 
Whene'er I see or hear or tell 
Of the dark beverage of hell? 



48 



NOT FIT TO BE KISSED. 



HAT ails pnpa's moiif ?" said a sweet little girl, 
^^Her bright laugh revealing her teeth, white as 
^' pearl. 

"I love him, and kiss him, and sit on his knee. 
But the kisses don't smell good, when he kisses me ! 

But mamma" — her eyes opened wide as she spoke — 
"Do you like nasty kisses of 'baceo and smoke? 
They might do for boys, but for ladies and girls, 
I don't think them nice," as siie tossed her bright 
curls. 

"Don't nobody's papa have moufs nice and clean? 
With kisses like j^ours, mamma — that's what I 

mean ? 
I want to kiss papa, I love him so well, 
But kisses don't taste sood, that have such a smell ! 



49 
Its nasty to smoke, and eat 'bacco, and spit, 
And the kisses an't good, and an't sweet, — 

not a bit ! ' ' 
And her blossom-like face, wore a look of disgust 
As she gave out her verdict, so earnest and just. 

Yes, yes, little darling! j^our wisdom has seen 
That kisses for daughters and wives should be clean ; 
For kisses lose something of nectar and bliss, 
From mouths that are stained and unfit for a kiss. 



MARY DOW. 



f||OME in little stranger I said, 
^2^. As f-he tapped at my half open door, 
""'" While a blanket, pinned over her head. 
Just reached to the basket she bore. 

A look, full of innocence fell 

From her modest and pretty blue eye. 
As she said, "I have matches to sell. 

And hope you are willing to buy. 



50 
•'A penii}' a buneli is the price — 

I think you'll not tind it to much — 
They are done up so even and nice, 

And ready to light with a touch. 

I asked, what's your name little girl? 

'^' Tis Mary," she said, '-Mary Dow," 
And carelessly tossed off a curl 

That was playing o'e^- her delicate brow. 

•':My father was lost in the deep, 
The ship never got to the shore; 

And mother is sad. and will weep 

When she hears the wind blow and sea roar 

'•'She sits there at home, without food, 
Beside our i)Oor sick Willie's bed ; 

She paid all her money for wood, 
And so I sell matches for l)read. 

-'For whenever she tries (for something 

S'le'd b3 piid for) to make- 
She lays down the baby, it cries. 

And that makes my sick brother wake. 

"I'd go to the yard and get chips ; 

But then it makes me so sad, 
To see the men building ships 

And think they have made one so bad. 



, 51 

"I have one other gown, and with care 
We think it mjiy decently pass — 

With my bonnet put by — for to wear 
To meeting and Sabbath school class. 

"I love to go there wliere I'm taught, 
Of One whose so great and so good; 

He knows every action and thought, 
And gives e'en the raven his food. 

''For He, I am sure, who will take 
Such fatherly care of a bird, 

Will never forget, or forsake 

The children who trust in his word.'* 

Fly home little bird, then I thought. 

With joy to your nest — 
For 1 took all the matches she brought," 

And ]Mary may tell you the rest. 



52 



THE MODEL CHURCH. 



'ELL, wife, I've found the model church! I wor- 
^ shiped there to-daj^ ; 

It made me think of good old times, before my 

hair was gray. 
The meeting-house was fixed up more than they 

were j^ears ago ; 
But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built 

for show. 

The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the 

door ; 
He knew that I was old and deaf as well as old 

and poor ; 
He must have been a Christian, for he led me 

boldl}' through 
The long aisle of that crowded church to find 

a pleasant pew. 



53 
I wish you'd heard the singin'— it had the 

old-time ring ; 
The preacher said, with trumpet voice, "Let all 

the people sing;" 
The tune was "Coronation," and the music 

upward rolled. 
Till I thought I heard the angels strikin' all 

their harps of gold. 

My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit 

caught the fire ; 
I joined my feeble, tremblin' voice with that 

melodious choir. 
And sang, as in my youthful, days, "Let angels 

prostrate fall ; 
Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him 

Lord of all." 

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that 

hymn once more ; 
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a 

glmpse of shore ; 
I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten 

form, 
And anchor in the blessed port forever from 

the storm. 



54 

The preachin' ! Well, I can't just tell all that 

the preacher said ; 
• I know it wasn't written ; I know it wasn't read,; 
He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his 

eye 
Went passin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed 

a sinner by. 

The sermon wasn't flowerN^ 'twas simple gos- 
pel truth ; 

It fitted poor old men like me ; it fitted hopeful 
youth : 

'Twas full ( f consolation for weary hearts that 
bleed ; 

'Twas ful! of invitations to Christ, and not to creed. 

The preacher made sin iiideous in Gentiles and 

in Jews ; 
He shot the golden sentences down on the finest 

pews : 
And — thougli I can't see very well— I saw the 

fall in' tenr, 
■ That told me hell was some way off, and heaven 

very near. 



55 
How swift the golden moments fled within that 

holy place ; 
How brightly l^eamed the light of heaven from 

eveiT liappy i'dce ! 
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend 

shall meet with friend ; 
When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths 

have no end. 

I hope to meet that minister — the congregation 

too — 
In the dear home beyond the skies that shine 

from heaven's blue. 
I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening 

gray. 
The happy hour of worship in that model church 

to-day. 

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the 

victory be won ; 
The shiniu' goal is just ahead, the race is nearly 

I'un ; 
O'er the river we arc nearin' they are thronin' 

to the shore. 
To shout oui" safe arrival where the weary weep 

no more. 



56 



THE LABORER'S SONG. 



FRANCIS S. SMITH. 



|t CAN be happy if any one can — 
^f I wrong no woman and rob no man : 
^I have no riches — my only wealth 
Is muscle-producing, robust health. 
1 never was in a condition to hoard, 
And yet I've a seat for a friend at my board 
And a kindly welcome to all who come 
To my humble and poor but cosy home. 

I am no man's debtor — I pay my way, 
And while my little ones round me play, 
I look at my wife so loving and leal, 
And prouder than any prince I feel. 
I pity my foes and love my friends, 
And give God thanks for all he sends. 
And I would not change my earthly state 
For an}^ dominion however great. 



57 
I have my trials and cares, 'tis true, 
But has not the monarch his troubles too. 
'Tis seldom that care deserts his brow, 
And I sing ten songs to his one, I know. 
My couch is rude, but my sleep is sweet, 
I have clothes to wear and enough to eat ; 
I've a conscience clear and a mind at ease, 
And where is the kino- who can boast of these. 



PERPLEXED HOUSEKEEPER. 



MRS. F. B. GAGE. 



|l wish I had i 
% Of hands 1 



a dozen pairs 
s this very minute 



I'd soon put all these things to rights — 
The very mischief's in ic. 

Here's a biir washino- to be done, 

One pair of hands to do it ; 
Sheets, shirts, stockings, coats and pants. 

How will I e'er get through it. 



58 
Dinner to get for six or more, 

No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
The baby cross as he can be — 

He's always so on Monday. 

And there's the cream, 'tis getting sour, 
And must forthwith be churning; 

And there's Bob wants a button on. 
Which way shall I be turning. 

'Tis time the meat was in the pot. 
The bread was worked for baking, 

The clothes were taken from the boil — 
Oh dear ! the baby waking. 

Hush baby dear, there, hush sh-sh ! 

I wish he'd sleep a little. 
Till I could run and get some wood 

To hurry up the kettle. 

Oh dear, oh dear, if P comes home 

And finds things in this bother. 

He'll just begin and tell me all 
About his tidy mother. 

How nice her kitchen used to be. 

Her dinner always ready. 
Exactl}^, when the noon bell rang — 

Hush, hush, dear little Freddie. 



59 
And then will come the hasty word 

Right out, before I'm thinking — 
They say that hasty words from wives 

Set sober men to drinking. 

Now isn't that a great idea, 

That men should take to sinning, 

Because a weary, half-sick wife 
Can't always smile so winning. 

When I was young, I used to earn 

My living without trouble. 
Had clothes and pocket money too, 

Had hours of pleasure double. 

I never dreamed of such a fate. 
When I — a lass — was courted — 

Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, 
housekeeper, chambermaid, laundress, 
dairy-woman and scrub generally, doing 
the work of six, for the sake of being 
supported. 



60 



"BINIEY AND '46." 

BRET HARTE. 

MPON AVasatcli's peaks of snow, 
y^. Night holds illimitable sway, 
'■ Where but a single hour ago 
The crags and chasms, high and low. 
Resplendent shone with day. 

From out the sky no star ray shines 

Upon the awful solitude ; 
While moaning through the tossing pines, 

Like some unquiet spirit's brood, 
The winds sweep to and fro, 

And seem in saddened mood 
To breath a wail of woe. 

At first they only sighed, 
But now they moan and sob ; 

And since the eventide 
Thtiir maddened pulses throb 

In quicker, faster flow. 

As their fleeting footsteps glide 

O'er the cold expanse of snow. 



61 
And all the upper air 

Is filled witli drifting clouds, 
While fiends ihat revel thet'e 

Are weaving shitting shrouds ; 
Tossing in endless whirl, 

They reel in goblin mirth, 
And then the shrouds they hurl 
On teinp^st's wing? to earth. 
* *- ^ * * * * 

'Twas 'leven o'clock near Bridgers Gap, 

In a station that swayed in the tempest's sweep, 
Where a lightning jerker enjoyed his nap, 

When a call from the canon Iroke his sleep 
And he caught the words frOiU the subtle clicks, 
''Send Binley down here Wilh '-16." 

Soon Binley had mounted his iron steed, 

-And the fires of the furnace glowed again, 
As the ponderous monster devoured its feed, 

And rolled from the side tracks on to the main. 
Out on the night where the snowflakes fell. 

Out where the blasts of the tempests roar. 
Binley shouted his friends farewell, 

As he opened the throttle-valve one notch more. 

Then over the winding track he spei'. 

Where the pathway with chasms and crags 
was lined ; 



62 
The glare of his great light gleamed ahead, 
And the snow like a bride's vail streamed 
behind, 
And soon the sound of the clanking steel 

Was drowned in the echoes from hill to hill ; 
He felt the engine sway and reel. 

But the throttle went one notch further still. 

And down the grade like a courser fleet, 

Plunging through mountains of drifted snow. 
The engine plows through the crusts of sleet. 

And hurls a thousand feet below 
The ponderous masses that block its way ; 

Throws them far to the left and right. 
Into the black oblivious night, 

To reach the canons by break of day. 

And now old Binley feels the thrill 

That the soldier feels when he meets 
his foe ; 
He opens the throttle-valve wider still. 

And his furnace burns with a fiercer glow, 
As the piston flashes in faster stroke ; 

But flrm as a rock stands the engineer. 
And in his honest old heart of oak 

There beats not the slightest pulse of fear. 



63 
But soon the engine is running slower, 

Though its pathway lies on a level grade ; 
And then a tremor comes stealing o'er 

Binley's hand on the throttle laid. 
There's a slacking up of the driving-wheel, 

While the engine struggles with human will 
Then slowly ceases the clank of steel, 

And the panting monster is standing still. 

Thicker and faster the drifting snow 

Throws round its victim its winding-sheet, 

And quenches the glare of the head-light's 
glow. 
As Binley mutters, "I give up beat." 

Next morning a snow-plow forced its way 
To the spot where the buried engine lay ; 

They hewed a path through the frozen crust, 
And then was the ghastly story told ; 

There sat Binley beside his trust, 

With his hand on the throttle-valve stiff 
and cold. 



64 



HOW MAMMA PLAYS. 

o-O— « ■ 

2UST the sweetest thing that the children do 
^Is to piny with mamma, a-playing too, 
''"''And -'Baby is lost." they think is the best, 
For mamma plays that with a merry zest. 

'•My baby is lost!" up and down mamma goes, 
A peering about and following her nose; 
Inside the papers, and under the books, 
And all in between the covers she looks, 
'•Baby! baby!" calling. 

But though in her way is papa's tall hat, 

She never once thinks to look under that. 

She listens, she stops, she hears the wee laugh, 

And around she flies, the faster by half, 

"Why where can he be?" and she opens the clock, 

She tumbles her basket, she shakes papa's sock, 

'•Baby! baby!" calling. 
While the children all smile ac papa's tall hat, 
Though none of them go and look under that. 



65 
A sweet coo calls. Mamma darts everywhere, 
She feels in her pockets, to see if he's there, 
In every vase on the mantle shelf, 
She searches sharp for the little elf. 

"Baby! baby!" calling. 
Another coo comes from papa's tall hat, 
Yet none of them stir an inch toward that. 

Somewhere he certainly must be, she knows. 
So up to the china cupboard she goes ; 
The covers^ she lifts from the sugar-bowls. 
The sweet white, lumps she rattles and rolls, 

''Baby! baby!" calling. ' 
But though there's a stir near papa's tall hat. 
They will not so much as look toward that. 

She moves the dishes, but baby is not 

In the cream-pitcher nor in the teapot ; 

And she wrings her hands and stamps on the floor, 

She shakes the rugs, and she opens the door, 

*'Baby! baby!" calling. 
They stand with their backs to papa's tall hat, 
Though the sweetest oi murmurs come from that. 

The children join in the funny distress. 
Till mamma, all sudden, with swift caress, 



66 
Makes a pounce right down on the tall black hat. 
And brings out the baby from under that, 

"Baby! baby!" calling. 
And this is the end of the little play, 
The children would like to try every day. 



THE UNWRITTEN LEADER. 



KATE TAXXAir WOODS. 



jfT was just two years ago JMonday, 

|f Since Patrick, my man. had his fall ; 

""^As I was minding the children . 

And washing a bit for Miss Hall, 

When a man came running so quickly, 
]My heart jumped up in my troat. 

And he sez, "Ye needn't be mindin*, 
There's an accident down to the boat, 

And Patrick's a little bit hurted ; 

Don't howl an' be takiiT on now," 
And I turned as cold as a stone then. 

And made him a queer frighted bow. 



67 
In the midst of the fright and the hurtin', 

I was thinkin', He sez that to me, 
But if 'twas a rich woman's husband, 

He never would make quite so free. 

"Don't howl!" Wasn't Patrick my husband? 

\Vas 1 less nor a wonnin to feel. 
Could my I)abies be sparin' their father, 

Was an li-ibh iieart made out of steel? 

But I hushed up the noise of the children. 
Ami put the clothes out of me sight: 

For, sez I, we'll be ueedin" the money. 
And they must be done over night. 

Then they l)rought my poor man in so silent, 

I felt that 1 wanted to die ; 
But Dicky and poor little Norah 

INIust never be seein' me cry. 

It was weeks and months he laid there, 
And he never was aisy to mind, 

For it fretted him. wliar wilh the achin' 
And know in' the rent was to find. 

But I never let on to my darlint. 

How worrit and tired I grew ; 
So I worked and waited and tended 

My poor man the long Summer through. 



68 
And at last it came near to Christmas, 

And there he was, still on his back ; 
I had pawned near all that we had then. 

And m}^ clothes, leaving one woolen sack. 

I left him one night with a neighbor. 
And started once more for some work ; 

I never could be a poor begger. 

Though some seem minded to shirk. 

But never a thing could I find then. 
Though I asked a dozen or more ; 

And because my clothes were so shabby. 
They would turn me away from the door; 

Till at last I was worn with the workin' 
And watchin' and wantin' for bread, 

And down I sat on some door-steps, 
With a queer, dizz}^ jjain in ni}- head. 

How long I was there I'm not mindin'. 
It seemed to be years of me life ; 

And the world was so big, and so lonely, 
AVith no place for poor Pat and his wife. 

They opened a door up above me ! 

And a gentleman ran down so light, 
While a sweet little voice was sayin', 

Good-bye — don't work very hard to-night. 



69 
"What, drunk!" he said as he saw me, 

"A case for the lock-up ! see here, 
Rouse up here, good woman, and hear me, 

I'm your friend, you have nothing to fear." 

"Drunk!"' That roused me — Call the lady, 

I never was drunk, I am weak ; 
Oh Mister, for love of the Virgin, 

Ask the lady to hear, while I speak. 

"Why bless you," said he "come here Jenny,' 

He opened the door with a key, 
"Little wife here's a woman in trouble;" 

Then the lady came down to poor me. 

So I told her the whole of the story. 

She listened so patient the dear. 
And he with his arm close about her, 

Said again, "You have nothing to fear." 

For I was frighted, with trouble, 

And m}^ eyes were wild with tlie pain, 

But the gentleman wrote in his note-book. 
Something, 1 thought was my name. 

Then the dear little lady, she coaxed him, 
"Would he see me safe home to the door, 

And look at the children I spoke of; 
He could shorten a leader once more?" 



70 
"Besides, love'* — the little thing kissed him— 

"You know, dear, the power to write 
Comes as often from healing- and helping, 

As working with only 3'oiir might." 

I never was wise or was knowin'. 
But one thing I minded her say : 

He worked all the night on a pai)er, 
And that's tiow I came in his way. 

Then he kissed her and said. "On the morrow 

The unwritten leader Avill be 
An unyielding fact at the oflice" — 

"But in heaven, Oh! what there?" said she. 

So he took to our poor little hovel 

A basket, tilled full to the biim. 
And he walked by my side, kindly talking, 

While I — -1 was })ra3ing for him. 

The night before Christmas they brought us 
8uch comforts and l)eautiful things. 

My poor little Noi-ah was askin' 
If all of the angels had wings? 

And now, in the gray of the mornin', 

I wake when the newsl)oys cry. 
And ask the Virgin to bless them, 

And shall every day, till 1 die. 



71 



PASS UNDER THE ROD. 

SAW the 3^oung bride in her beauty and pride 
^ji^ Bedecked in her snowy array ; 

And the l)right flush of joy mantled high on 
her cheek, 
And the future looked blooming and gay : 
And with woman's devotion she laid her fond 
heart, 
At the shrine of idolatrous love. 
And she anchored her hopes to this perishing- 
earth, 
By the chain which her tenderness wove. 
But I saw when these heart-strings were bleeding 
and torn. 
And the chain had l)een severed in two, 
She had changed her white robes for the sables 
of grief. 
And her bloom for the paleness of woe! 
But the Healer was there, pouring balm on 
the heart 
And wiping the tears from her eyes ; 



72 
He strengthened the chain, he had broken in twain, 

And fastened it firm to the skies ! 
There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of 
her God, 
I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod ! 

I saw the 3^oiing mother in tenderness bend 

O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
And she kissed the soft lips as she murmured 
his name, 

While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
Oh, sweet as the rosebud encircled with dew. 

When its fragrance is flung on the air. 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seemed, 

As he lay in his innocence there ; 
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form, 

Pale as marble and silent and cold, 
But paler and colder her beaiitifnl boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow was told : 
But the Healer was there who had stricken 
her heart. 

And taken her treasure awa^^. 
To allure her to heaven he has placed it on high, 

And the mourner will sweetly obey ; 
There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of 
her God, 

I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod ! 



73 

I saw a father and mother who leaned 

On the arm of a dear gifted son, 
And the star in the future grew bright to their 
gaze 
As they saw the proud place he had won: 
And the fast coming evening of life promised 
fair, 
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet, 
And the starlight of love gleamed bright at the 
end, 
And the whispers of fancy were sweet. 
And I saw them again bending low o'er the 
grave 
Where their hearts dearest had been laid. 
And the star had gone down in the darkness 
of night, 
And the joy from their bosom had fled. 
But the Healer was there, and his arms were 
around, 
And he led them with tenderest care ; 
And he showed them a star in the Vjright upper 
world, 
'Twas their star shining brilliantly there! 
They had each heard a voice, 'twas the voice 

of their God, 
I love thee— I love thee— pass under the rod ! 



74 



THE BABY. 



HERE did you come from, baby dear? 
^Out of the everywhere, into the here. 
Where did yon get your eyes so blue? 
Out of the skies as 1 came through. 
What makes your forehead smooth and high ? 
A soft hand stroked it, as I went by. 
What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
Where did you get that coral ear? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 
Where did you get those arms and hands? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 
Whence came your feet, dear little things? 
From the same box as the angel's wings. 
How did the}^ all first come to be you? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 
But how did you come to us, you dear? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 



75 



RULES FOR DAILY LIFE. 



"^QeGIN the day with God ; 
Cll Kneel down to him In prayer ; 
'" ■ Lift up thy heart to his abode, 
And seek his love to share. 

Open the book of God, 
And read a portion there. 

That it may hallow all thy thoughts, 
And sweeten all thy care. 

Go through the day with God, 
Whate'er thy work may be ; 

Where'er thou art— at home, abroad- 
He still is near to thee. 

Converse in mind with God ; 

Thy spirit heavenward raise ; 
Acknowledge every good bestowed, 

And offer grateful praise. 



76 
Conclude the day with God ; 

Thy sins to him confess ; 
Trust in the Lord's atoning blood, 

And plead his righteousness. 

Lie down at night with God, 
Who gives his servants sleep ; 

And when thou tread' st the vale of death 
He will thee guard and keep. 



THOUGHTS ARE HEARD IN HEAVEN. 

wPELOW the surface of our lives, 
f^ Beneath the din and noise of worlds 
"'There lies the hidden thoughts, unseen. 
That neither word nor deed unfurls. 

Its speech is silent, save to One. 

Whose ear is quick to catch the sound 
Who knows the language, unexpressed, 

That in the hearts of men abound. 



77 
The longing for a better state, 

The inward hope, the fond desire, 
Are thoughts that burn within a soul 

Filled with the warmth of sacred lire. 

Their language reaches to the skies ; 

How blest is the assurance given — 
Above confusing sound and strife 

We know that thoughts are heard in heaven. 

O wondrous truth ! amid the sound 
Of harp and song and praise above. 

This thought of mine, this inward throb, 
Is ever heard by ears of Love. 

May all my meditations, then, 

Be such, that when they reach the throne, 
Their language may not fail to please 

My Lord, the high and holy One. 



A Sabbath well spent 
Brings a week of content 

And health for the toils of to-morrow ; 
But a Sabbath profaned, 
Whatever seems gained. 

Is a certain forerunner of sorrow. 



78 



AUNT BETSEY'S PRAYER-MEETING. 



JULIA A. MATHEWS. 
"#« 

"^I'VE been to-night to a meetin', 
^[ Our own Church-raeetin' for prayer 
■^I knew it wouldn't be Christian 
To wish I wasn't there ; 
But somehow^ I felt quite different 

From what I'd felt before. 
I went with John and the children 
Into the old church door. 

I went feeling chirk and happy ; 

I'd had a good, bright da}- ; 
P'ather'd been rakiii' the meadow, 

The boys were cutting hay ; 
And the smell came up so pleasant. 

Just like a sweet wild rose, 
I had to sing at m}^ bakin'. 

And as I damped my clothes. 



79 
And all the day had been shiny — 

Indeed, days mostly is ; 
I think when they go to meetin' 

Folks don't remember this. 
It's often so in our meetin' s 

They go and sing and pray, 
Bat scarcely ever seem thinkin' 

Of the brightness of the day. 

To-night there was many pray in', 

And many speakin' too ; 
Yet there was a somethin' w^antin' 

When they had all got through. 
The prayers was real good and earnest, 

And there was wise words said, 
But somehow even the Scriptur' 

To me fell cold and dead. 

They told the Lord of our failin's, 

Of all the cares he'd sent, 
Of our troubles and our trials, 

(Ownin' 'twas kindly meant;) 
And they prayed for help and comfort— 

I know it was quite right, 
But all the while I was wishin' 

They'd thank him more to-night. 



80 
We had such a real nice sunset ; 

The clouds were golden red, 
And la}^ on the blue so restful, 

I wanted one word said 
To thank the Lord for its beauty ; 

He did it to make us glad ; 
But never one real thanksgivin' 

P'or that fair sight he had. 

O, no ; they only just thanked him 

In a general kind of way ; 
I wish they would speak out plainly, 

Of flowers, the new-mown hay, 
The birds, the sky, and the sunset, 

And all our sweet home-joys ; 
Would tell him of all the pleasure 

AVe have in our girls and boys, 

Then they talked so of our failures! 

Enough to fright a soul ! 
We want some measure of courage 

To keep faith bright and whole. 
If you should be always tell in' 

Your boys of their faults and sin 
Your strivin's to make them better 

Wouldn't be worth a pin. 



81 
I'd just get close to the Master, 

To breathe it in his ear ; 
I know he'd be watchin' for me, 

Waitin' my tale to hear. 
But I don't believe he'll ever 

Let me be "lost" or "vile," 
For his own strong arm can hold me 

Close to him all the while. 

So 1 came- straight home this evenin' ; 

I did not fret a mite 
To John or the boys of meetin' ; 

They'd think it wasn't right. 
For they're all strong meetin' -goers, 

And they don't seem to see 
The want there is in prayers and things 

That is so great to me. 



A beautiful, simple, morning prayer for children. 



I thank thee Lord, for having kept. 

My soul and body while 1 slept ; 

And pray thee Lord, that through this day 

In all I think, or do, or say, 

I may be kept from harm and sin. 

And made both pure and good within. 



82 



"WOMAN'S RIGHTS." 

-I- 

O riHit in busy council hall, 



^ 



In presence there to plead ; 
"'But in the garden ground of home, 
To sow truth's precious seed. 

A right to soothe man's toil-worn heart, 

In sad and weary hour ; 
Blunting the point of many a thorn. 

And scattering many a flower. 

A right the holy power to wield. 

That to the pen belongs ; 
Not ours, to "make the nation's laws," 

But ours to ''make their songs." 

A right to calm the angry zeal 

Burning in breasts of men, 
By many a word and deed of love, 

To win forth love again. 



83 
A right to show the child's first steps. 

The path the Savior trod ; 
To take him by his little hand, 

And lead him up to God. 

A right with ceaseless care to bend 

Above the sufferer's bed; 
A right to cheer the d^dng one, 

And watch beside the dead. 

A right to tread the mournful way, 

Unto the prisoner's cell, 
And by the might of earnest prayer, 

With God for man prevail. 

A right to shield repentant ones 
From scandal's poisonous breath; 

Remembering the words He spake, 
The Christ of Nazareth. 

A right to win the proudest name, 
That earth and heaven afford ; 

"My mother and my sisters, these 
Who do the will of God." 



84 



TRIED GOLD. 

LILLIE E. BARR. 
■ «4- 

?ET the spindle and distaff ready, 
g God will send the flax ; 

^So makes the bee, from Summer flowers. 
Hone^'comb and wax. 

Work the six days, pray all seven. 

Trust the rest to the grace of heaven. 

Cast thy bread upon the waters. 

Ask not gain or praise. 
Thou shalt eat it fresh and sweet. 

After many days. 
Work the six days, pray all seven, 
Trust the rest to the grace of heaven. 

Winds may blow, but the tree God plantetli 

Taketh deeper root ; 
Winds that shake it cannot l)reak it. 

It shall bear good fruit. 
W^ork the six days, pray all seven. 
Leave the rest to the grace of heaven. 



85 
Xevei- wish for the tarnished wages. 

Fraud and lying pay ; 
Unto every evil-doer 

Comes the evil day. 
Work the six days, pray all seven. 
Trust the rest to the grace of heaven, 

Go to the "well of living waters," 

If thy spirit faints ; 
Better it is to do with God 

Than with all his saints. 
Work the six days, pray all seven. 
Trust the rest to the grace of heaven. 

He doeth well who doeth his best, 
He doeth well who strives ; 

Noblest efforts sometimes fail,— 
Never noble lives. 

Work the six days, pray all seven, 

Trust the rest to the grace of heaven. 



86 



THE DRILL. 



^|DrESP2NT arms!'' there they are 
^ Both stretched out to me — 
" Strong and sturdy, smooth and white. 
Fair as arms can be. 



"Ground arms!" on the floor, 

Picking up his toys, 
Brta!>\Ing all within liis reach. 

Busiest of boys. 

"Right wheel !" off his cart, 
"Left wheel!" too, is gone. 

Horsey's head is broken off; 
Horsey's tail is torn. 

"Quick step!" "Forward march! 

Crying, too, he comes ; 
Had a battle with the cat — 

"Scratched off bofe my fums!' 



87 
"Shoulder arms!" here at last, 

Round my neck they close, 
Poor little soldier boy 

Off to quarters goes. 






If cider brandy and logwood. 

With drugs of all degrees. 
Can do the system good 

By driving out disease ; 
If sugar-o'-lead and beet root juice, 

With opium combined, 
Compose a draught for healing use 

To sick and sore mankind ; 
Then use it ye with hope and fear. 

Who in affliction pine. 
But in the name of all that's dear. 

Don't call that mixture wine. 



88 



gj^ 



THE DEAD DOLL. 

MARGARET VANDEdRIFI . 

— ^0 

M 

f30l^ needn't be trying to comfort me, — I tell 
) you my dolly is dead ! 

There's no use in saying she isn't, with a crack 

like that in her head. 
It's just like you said it wouldn't hui-t mucii to 

have my tooth out, that day ; 
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head 

off, 3'ou hadn't a word to say. 

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when 

you say you can mend it with glue ; 
As if I didn't know better than that ! Why, 

just suppose it was you? 
You might make her look all mended — but what 

do I care for looks? 
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and to3^s, 

and the backs of books ! 



89 
My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but 

it's ttuB awfulest crack! 
It just makes me sick to think of tjie sound 

when her poor head went whack 
Against that horrible brass thing that holds 

up the little shelf. 
Now, Nursey. what makes you remind me? 

I know that I did it myself! 

I think you must be crazy— you'll get her 
another head ! 

What good would forty heads do her? I tell 
you my dolly is dead ! 

And to think I hadn't quite finished her ele- 
gant new Spring hat ! 

And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night 
to tie on that horrid cat ! 

When my mamma gave me that ribbon— I 

was playing out in the yard- 
She said to me, most expressly, ''Here's a 

ribbon for Hildegarde." 
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hilde- 

garde saw me do it ; 
But I said to myself. "Oh, never mind, I 

don't believe she knew it!" 



90 
But I know that she knew it now, and 1 just 

believe. I do. 
That her poor little heart was broken, and so 

her head broke too. 
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my 

head had been hit ! 
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't 

cracked a bit. 

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to 

be buried, of course ; 
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and 3'ou 

shall be the horse : 
And I'll walk behind and crj- ; and we'll put 

hei' in this, you see — 
This dear little box — and we'll bury her then 

under the maple-tree. 

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the 

one he made for my bird ; 
And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes. every 

single word ! 
I shall say: 'Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful 

doll, who is dead ; 
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack 

in her head.'* 



91 



NO TIME TO PRAV. 



No time to pray ! 
O, who so fraught with earthly care 
As not to give to humbie prayer 

Some part of day? 






No time to pray . 
VV^hat heart so clean, so pure within, 
That needeth not some check from sin- 
Needs not to pray ? 

No time to pray] 
'Mid each day's dangers, what retreat 
More needful than the mercy-seat? 

Who must not pray? 

No time to pray! 
Must care or business' urgent call 
So press us as to take it all, 

Each passing day? 



92 

No time to pray ! 
Then sure your record falleth short ; 
Excuse will fail you as resort 

On reckoning day. 

What thought more drear 
Than that our God his face should hide, 
And say through all life's swelling tide, 

No time to hear ! 

Cease not to pray ; 
On Jesus as your all rely, 
Would you live happy — happy die? 

Take time to pray ! 

WE COULD NOT PAY. 



E were so poor when baby died. 
That mother stitched his shroud, 

The others in their hunger cried 
With sorrows wild and loud ; 

We were so poor we could not pay 

The man to carry him away. 



93 
I see him still before my eyes ; 

He lies upon my bed, 
And mother whispered through her sighs, 

"The little boy is dead." 
A little box of common pine, 
His coffin was and may be mine. 

They laid our little brother out, 
And wrapped his form in white, 

And as they turned his head about, 
We saw the solemn sight. 

And wept as little children weep, 

And kissed the dead one in his sleep. 

We looked our last upon his face. 

And said our last good- by. 
While mother laid him in the place, 

Where those are laid who die ; 
The sexton shoved the box away. 
Because we were too poor to pay. 

We were too poor to hire a hearse. 

And couldn't get a pall ; 
And when we drove him to the grave, 

A wagon held us all ; 
'Twas I who drove the horse, and I 
Who told my mother not to cry. 



94 
We rode along the crowded town, 

And felt so lone and drear, 
That oft our tears came trickling down 

Because no friends were near. 
The folks were strangers — seltish men, 
Who hadn't lost a baby then. 

We reached the grave and laid him there, 

With all the dead around — 
There was no priest to sa>' a prayer, 

And bless the holy ground. 
So home we went in grief and pain. 
But home was never home again. 

And there he sleeps, without a stone, 

To mark the sacred spot ; 
But though to all the world unknown, 

To us 'tis ne'er forgot; 
We mean to raise a stone some day, 
But now we are too poor to pay. 



"Ten thousand, thousand precious gifts, 

M}^ daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart. 

That tastes these gifts with joy." 



95 



PITTY PAT'S PRAYER. 

.^ 

|JE'VE a dear little lassie we'v^e named Pitty Pat ; 

J^She's get a wee kitten she calls Kitty Cat. 
Now Pitty Pat sleeps in a gown snowy white, 
While Kitty Cat wears her day clothing all night. 

Bat Pitty Pat says she don't like it at ail, 
And palling her far oat, makes Kitty Cat sqaall ; 
Bat still she persists in undressing her pet, 
And failing to do it quite angry will get ; 

While Kitty Cat cries at what Pitty Pat does 
To her own little coatee of silky soft fuz ; 
Then Pitty Pat's sorry, and asks why she cries 
At being fixed tidy for shutting her e3^es. 

Nor says 'Now I lay me,' when going to bed, 
But curling up softly, sings 'purr' instead. 
So Pitty Pat tells her, in solemnest way, 
"If you're a bad Kitty Cat, then I must pray. 



96 
*'Her lays her — dear Father — down softly — in bed- 
Her doesn't — do niiffin — and nuffln — her said 
*Cept piir-r — and pur-r, and then goes to sleep — 
But never mind. Father, her little soul keep!" 



NOTHING TO DO. 

II have shot m}^ arrows, and spun my top, 
^ And bandied my last new ball ; 
"^I trundled my hoop till I had to stop, 
And I swuno^ till I <rot a fall ; 
I tumbled my books all out of the shelves, 

And hunted the pictures through, 
I ve flung them where they may sort themselves, 
And now — I have nothing to do. 

The tower of Babel 1 built of blocks, 
Came down with a crash to the floor ; 

M}'^ train of cars ran over the rocks, 
I'll warrant they'll run no more — 



97 
r have raced with Grip till Fm out of breath: 

My slate is broken in two, 
So I can't draw monkeys! I'm tired to death, 

Because 1 have nothing to do. 

The boys have gone to the pond to fish, 

They bothered me too, to go ; 
But for fun like that I hadn't a wish, 

For I think it's mighty "slow" 
To sit all day at the end of a rod. 

For tlie sake of a minnow or two, 
Or to land, at the farthest, an ell on the sod— 

I'd rather have nothing to do! 

Maria has gone to the woods for flowers— 

And Lucy and Ned are away 
After berries— I'm sure they've been out for hours 

I wonder what makes them stay? 
Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me, 

But riding is nothing new ; 
"I was thinking you'd relish a canter," said he, 

"Because you had nothing to do." 

I wish I was poor Jim Foster's son, 

For he seems so happy and gay. 
When his wood is chopped and his work all done, 

With his little half hour to play ; 



98 
He neither has books, nor top nor ball, 

Yet he is singing the whole day through ; 
But then — he never is tired at all 

Because he has nothing to do. 



"TWO CENTS A WEEK AND A PRAYER." 



HATTIE E. BUELL. 
'^ 

m 

U|f wo cents a week and a prayer," 
^^1 A tiny gift may be, 
'"■"' But it helps to do a wonderful work 
For our sisters over the sea. 

"Two cents a week and a prayer," 

From out abundant store ; 
It was never missed, for its place was filled 

By a Father's gift of more. 



99 
"Two cents a week and a prayer," 

Perhaps 'twas a sacrifice ; 
But treasure came from tlie store-house above, 

Outweighing by far the price. 

•'Two cents a week and a prayer:'' 
'Twas the prayer, perhaps, after all. 

That the work was done, and a blessing brought, 
The gift was so very small. 

"Two cents a week and a prayer," 

Freely and heartily given ; 
The treasures of earth will all melt away — 

This is treasure laid up in heaven. 

"Two cents a week and a prayer," 

A tiny gift may be. 
But it helps to do such wonderful work 

For our sisters across the sea ! 



100 



ONLY A BABY. 

TO A LITTLE ONE, JUST A WEEK OLD. 

BABY'S REPLY. 






'i^NLY a baby, 

'Thoiit any hair, 
'Cept just a little 
Fuzz here and there. 

Only a baby 

>Jarae you have none: 
Bare foot and dimpled. 

Sweet little one. 

Only a baby. 

Teeth none at all ; 
What are you here for, 

Only to squall? 

Only a baby. 

Just a week old — 
What are you here for. 

You little scold? 



iNLY a baby ; 
' What should I be? 
Lots of big folks 
Been little like me. 

Ain't dot any hair ; 

Es I have too ; 
S'pose I hadnt. 

Des it tood drow. 

Not any teeth — 

Wouldn't have one; 
Don't dit my dinner 

Gnawing a bone. 

What am I here for? 

At's prettj^ mean, 
Who's dot a better 

T'ever you've seen 



ight 



J 



101 
What am I dood for 

Did you say? 
Every so many ting*i 

Eber}^ day. 

'Tourse I squall sometimes. 

Sometimes I bawl ; 
Dey dassent spank me 

'Taiise I's so small. 

Only a baby ! 

'Es sir, dats so ; 
'N if you onl}^ could 

You'd be one, too. 

' At's all I have to say ; 

You're most too old : 
Dess I'll dit into bed. 

Toes dittin told. 



Our Georgie sits by the window wiitcliir.g. 

The rain and the "thunder light," 
When a dazzling flash fires the swollen brooU 

And the thunder rolls with might. 
He starts for his mim.na very quick, 

And he cries, all pale with fright, 
"Say, mamma, is that big noise coming in? 

And mamma, will it bite?" 



102 



MOTHER'S WAY. 



;FT within our little cottage, 

As the shadows gently fall. 
While the sunlight touches softly 

One sweet face upon the wall, 
Do we gather close together, 

And in hushed and tender tone, 
Ask each other's full forgiveness, 

For the wrong that each has done ; 
Should you Avonder at this custom 

At the ending of the day. 
Eye and voice would quickly answer, 

"It was once our mother's way. 

If our home be bright and cheery, 

If it hold a welcome true, 
Opening wide its door of greeting 

To the many — not the few ; 
If we share our father's bounty 

With the needy, day by day, 
*Tis because our hearts remember 

This was ever mother's way. 



103 
Sometimes when our hearts grow weary, 

Or our task seems very long ; 
When our burdens look to heavy, 

And we deem the right all wrong. 
Then we gain a new fresh courage, 

As we rise to proudly say : 
"Let us do our duty bravely, 

This was our dear mother's way.'* 

Thus we keep her memory precious, 
While we never cease to pray, 

That at last when lengthening shadows 
Mark the evening of life's day, 

They may find us waiting calmly 
To go home our mother's way. 




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